


pick up the pieces

by dinomight



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Fjord (Critical Role), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fjord Has Issues (Critical Role), Gen, Internalized Acephobia, Mildly Dubious Consent, one (1) original character for plot purposes, the rest of the m9 are mostly just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinomight/pseuds/dinomight
Summary: She doesn’t kiss him right away like he expects her to. Instead, Avantika slides her hand under Fjord’s shirt, laying her long fingers flat against the planes of his stomach. There’s scar tissue there, a stretch of boiled skin from the explosion that set him down this path in the first place. Either she doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care, as she presses closer and whispers in his ear, “Do you want me?”“Yes.” It’s like everything else that drips off of his silver tongue—a half-truth.(Or: Fjord learns that old self-destructive habits die hard.)
Relationships: Fjord & Beauregard Lionett, Fjord & The Mighty Nein, past Captain Avantika/Fjord (Critical Role)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 121





	pick up the pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HumbleWaysideFlower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumbleWaysideFlower/gifts).



> This is for HumbleWaysideFlower, who requested "something exploring how the ace fjord head canon intersects with everything that went down with Avantika." Hopefully this fits what you wanted!  
> This fic is rated Mature for sexual content, but none of it is very explicit. (For example, there's nudity, but nothing is described in detail.) Still, I wanted to err on the safe side with this one. Additionally, much like my first ace Fjord fic, the Mildly Dubious Consent tag is to cover the fact that Fjord forces himself to have sex not because he wants to, but because he thinks he needs to; however, his partners both believe that the situations are consensual on both sides. There's also an (un)healthy dose of internalized acephobia. If any of this is a trigger for you, I would advise skipping this fic. Stay safe!  
> Side note: I personally headcanon Fjord to be demi-biromantic, but his romantic orientation doesn't really come up, so feel free to interpret that as you'd like.  
> Title from "Gold Dust Woman" by Fleetwood Mac.

When it comes down to it, he’s the one who chooses her. He’s the one who takes her hand in his, who stands and walks around the desk like a predator circling its prey, even if he knows that’s not what he really is in this scenario. 

She doesn’t kiss him right away like he expects her to. Instead, Avantika slides her hand under Fjord’s shirt, laying her long fingers flat against the planes of his stomach. There’s scar tissue there, a stretch of boiled skin from the explosion that set him down this path in the first place. Either she doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care, as she presses closer and whispers in his ear, “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” It’s like everything else that drips off of his silver tongue—a half-truth, obscured with a stolen accent and a mask that adapts to everyone who sees it. 

The truth he shows: she’s powerful. His friends need protection, and she can give it. 

The truth he hides: he doesn’t want her hands on him like this. Everywhere they touch burns, and not in the pleasurable, smoldering way everyone describes. This burning hurts; it’s like the aftermath of one of Caleb’s spells, gruesome and scarring. 

(The truth he tries to keep from even himself: he does want her, just not in the way she thinks. He wants her because she understands what it is to look into the dark and have it look back, he wants her because he does not want to be alone anymore and he knows that when they see what’s under his mask, they’ll leave him. He wants her because she wants him, and isn’t that what a poor little half-orc boy with a file always dreamed of?)

Licking her lips, Avantika drops her hand to the hem of the shirt, tugging at it once, and then again more forcefully. “Then take this off.”

He goes to pull it off, but it must be too slow for her still, because a pair of hands helps him do it, long nails scratching against his back as they do so. Then Avantika pushes him against the bookshelf, puts her mouth on his, and there is nothing but burning. 

* * *

Vess DeRogna’s assistant is looking at him.

It’s not something Fjord would normally register—he’s a half-orc, after all, travelling with the most motley group of people he’s ever seen. A few stares here and there aren’t unusual. Except this isn’t that kind of stare. This is interest with a particular type of heat behind it, the heat he’s never known himself but far too often seems to be the target of. 

Usually, he might take advantage of it. Flirt a bit, just until he gets what he’s looking for, and then ease off. They can always find someone else to finish the job, he reasons. 

But this time, they don’t need discounts or rooms or directions. They need a distraction.

“We need her out of the way long enough that Jester and Caleb can get into DeRogna’s office and out without getting caught. There’s only ten minutes left before she’s supposed to go back, so time to make a move,” Veth says, tossing her flask from hand to hand. “Fjord, you’ve got this, right?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says (lies), but it must not be convincing enough because Jester frowns.

“I don’t think it’s fair to Fjord to ask him to do that.”

“What, it’s the same thing he did with Captain Avantika the last time we did this!” Veth draws out the name, wrinkling her nose at her own attempt at the twisted accent. “Besides, she’s an attractive young woman, isn’t she? And she’s not even a murderous pirate captain. Win win, I say.”

Fjord huffs a laugh, even though his stomach feels weighed down with something heavier than the golden orb that used to reside there. “It’s fine. I got this, Jes.”

He’s lucky, in a way, that Caduceus, or hell, even Beau, isn’t here. He’s not sure he could’ve lied like this to either of them and not been thrown by the intensity of their stares. As it is, the combined weight of Jester and Caleb’s doubtful glances is almost enough to make him back down. Even Veth is looking less and less certain. 

Part of him wants to give in. To admit that he can’t. But they need the information from that office, and the memory of being powerless, unable to help his friends, is still too close, like the salt that sticks to the sides of your lungs after coughing up ocean water. For them, he can do this again. 

Besides, maybe this time whatever’s missing from him will shift into place, and this won’t be such a fucking problem.

Before he can lose his nerve, Fjord gets up from their table in the crowded tavern and crosses over to the bar, where the assistant is sitting. Her eyes go wide when she spots him, and she quickly turns to her drink, taking a large gulp. 

“Hey there,” he says, the drawl slipping from behind his teeth like an old friend, and the elven woman visibly tries not to spit the alcohol out. “You alright?”

“Ye- yeah,” she says. She throws a nervous glance at him as she cradles her drink carefully between her hands—delicate, thin, but stained with a few spots of ink. Someone who hasn’t left the desk very often, he guesses. And someone who’s probably fascinated by rough, scar-covered mercenaries. “Um. Hi.”

“Couldn’t help but notice such a fine young woman drinking alone,” he says, letting his eyes drop down and up again. “Thought to myself, ‘What a shame. Nobody that beautiful should be on their own.’”

The tips of her pointed ears go flaming pink. It’d be cute, if Fjord wasn’t shaking apart on the inside. “O-oh. That’s—that’s nice, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He flags down the bartender and gestures to the ale. As they start filling a mug, he turns to the assistant. “May I have the honor of knowing your name, ma’am?”

He sees the moment her nervousness starts to melt into something more comfortable, fueled by the heat of her desire. He knows, because it runs entirely in the opposite direction of his own feelings. “You may. It’s Caiyra. And what, kind sir, is yours?”

“Oskar.” Not what he’d intended to say, but it feels right. Feels like he gets to keep some piece of himself—even if it’s just one Jester jokingly attributed to him—while he does this. 

The bartender sets the mug down in front of him, and Fjord wastes no time taking several long gulps. After, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and lets his eyes slowly return to Caiyra’s. 

Her stare is intense. Somewhat unconsciously, she seems to lick her lips, glancing between the lean muscles of his arms and the planes of his face. 

“Oh, Oskar. You seem to be a man with quite a few stories. Perhaps you could tell me a few while you finish your drink.”

“Perhaps—” he lowers his eyelids, looks at her from under his lashes “—or perhaps we could go somewhere more private, and I could tell you a few there.”

She smiles, and it’s not the smile of a predator staring down their prey but it makes Fjord’s heart beat like one anyways.

* * *

The second time, there is not as much preamble. Avantika doesn’t ask him what he wants; she just leans back on the bed with one hand and with the other, begins lazily undoing the laces of her blouse. “Take your clothes off, Fjord,” she says, and her tone isn’t forceful but it’s a command all the same.

He does what he needs to. He complies.

When it’s done, when his clothes are lying in a limp pile on the floor, Avantika looks over him with a smirk. Eventually her eyes flicker up to meet his. They’re not the cold, underwater depths of yellow he’s come to be familiar with but they pin him down the exact same way.  _ Consume. _ He didn’t know what that meant, the first time he heard it, but he understands now. 

She takes her time as she stands. Doesn’t break eye contact with him as she tugs her shirt loose and then off, unbuckles her pants and slides them down. When she finally looks away from his eyes, it’s to the scar on his upper lip. She traces it with a single finger before closing the distance between them, pressing her own lips there, letting her tongue flick against the divot in his skin. If the slight jut of his slowly growing tusks bothers her, she doesn’t show it. 

Salt sticks to both of them, and Fjord doesn’t know if it’s the sea breeze through the open window or if it’s just that engrained in both of them now. He doesn’t know which he prefers, if he’s being honest. All he knows is that he feels the pressure of the ocean deep on his chest as Avantika drags him to the bed, pushes him onto his back, and straddles his waist. 

She pauses, and for a split second, Fjord is both relieved and scared out of his mind. Relieved, because maybe she’s decided she doesn’t want this anymore. Afraid, because maybe she’s realized  _ he _ doesn’t want this, and that something else is going on. (This isn’t about him, after all; it’s about his friends, who are risking everything right now less than a mile away—)

“Fjord,” she breathes, studying him from above. Her hands wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the bed. For a moment, there’s something not quite soft but maybe not quite cold in her eyes. “I am glad, you know. That Uk’o’toa chose you. That he brought you to me. It’s nice to not be so alone.”

Before he can even begin to respond, her lips crash down on his like a tide closing in, and whatever he thinks ceases to matter.

* * *

Caiyra is not Avantika. In a way, that’s almost worse. 

She’s not dangerous. She’s not even harsh. She’s kind and gentle, and she giggles when Fjord gets his fingers caught in the many buttons of her uniform. Where doing this particular dance with Avantika was smooth and salt-tinged, doing it with Caiyra is bumbling and smells like an odd spice he can’t quite place.

By all accounts, he should be enjoying this. He should like it when she grabs his hand and gently guides him to sit on the bed next to her; he should like it when she kisses him deep but not forceful, languid, exploring; he should like it when she cups the back of his head and smooths her thumb over the stubble of his undercut; he should like it when her other hand comes to rest on his hip, waiting and not pushing. 

Instead, it feels like a swarm of Caduceus’s beetles is growing under his skin. Itching, skittering around wherever he can feel her touch, wherever he can remember Avantika’s touch, too. 

He pushes the sensation away, tries to imagine manifesting his frost armor to conceal it. (This still isn’t about him. Only a few blocks away, his friends are risking everything yet again—)

Caiyra breaks their kiss, and, slightly out of breath, begins to undo the fastenings on her undergarments. Fjord tries to do the same with his pants, his shirt already discarded, but his numb fingers slip through the ties again and again.

“Here,” she says, lightly pushing away his hands as she takes over. “Let me.”

Too soon, his pants are gone, and her clothes are gone, and they’re both left on the bed staring at each other. She’s looking up and down at his body in awe while he’s found a freckle on her neck to fix his gaze on. Her first touch is hesitant, fingertips barely grazing against his thigh, and then more solid as she runs her hands over his skin. 

“So, Oskar,” she leans in, her warm breath fanning out over his neck in uneven pants, “how do you want me?”

He hesitates.

* * *

Vandran stares at his glass of whiskey, uncharacteristically quiet. Fjord sits, just as quiet, on the other side of the desk with his own drink in hand. Around them, the boat sways gently in the waves, cradling them both like a mother would hold her children.

Suddenly, Vandran lets the glass clatter on the wood. His eyes rest on a chest in the corner of the room that has always been locked, one that Fjord has never dared to ask about. “Y’know, Fjord,” Vandran says, that drawl of his low and rough, not at all like his usual attention-grabbing speeches but utterly captivating all the same. “If you remember anything from bein’ out here, remember this: everybody wants something from you. Everybody.”

It’s not a new lesson. He’s known that for a long time—relied on it, really. If people want things from you, it means they’ll keep you around. Still, as he meets Vandran’s eyes and catches a glimpse of the ghosts that live there, he feels the weight of it anyways and nods slowly. 

* * *

Caiyra doesn’t just want him. She wants him to want  _ her _ , like this. 

(His friends want something from him too, don’t they? They want him to do this. They want him to help them, protect them.)

His own heartbeat pounds in his ears, drowning out everything else. She’s staring at him. Waiting for his answer. For him.

(Jester, huddled close to him, lit up by the forge.  _ We’ll do anything to get you away from Uk’o’toa. _

Caduceus, proud.  _ Nonsense, he’s not powerless. He’s just discovered a new power. _

Caleb, tugging the glove over his arm.  _ Well, but it’s on your hand, so you hold onto that. _

Haven’t they already proven they don’t just want something from him?)

“Can’t decide?” Caiyra lets out a breathy laugh and shifts on the bed. “That’s alright. I can, if you want.”

Her hand starts to shift up, dragging against his inner thigh, towards—

Fjord shoves her, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get her off of him. She reels back, too surprised to be confused, and he takes the opportunity to scramble off the bed and start putting his pants back on.

“I’m—I apologize,” he says, voice shaking as he nearly slips into his real accent before slamming back into the old one. “I- I really must go now, I’ve forgotten something important I need to tend to.”

“Um—” Caiyra starts to say something, blinking rapidly, but Fjord’s got his pants on and his shirt, armor, and boots in hand, and that’s enough. Without waiting for the rest of her response, he stumbles out the door. 

Once he’s in the hallway and the door is shut behind him, he can breathe a little easier, but only a bit. He doesn’t stop, tugging his shirt on first as he walks, then barely pausing to put on his boots. The armor he keeps in his hands, because he’s pretty sure he’s already laced his pants and boots wrong with his trembling fingers and he doesn’t want to even think about trying the complicated leather fastenings. 

Somebody whistles as he staggers down the hallway. They clap him on the back, a gesture that’s probably meant to be celebratory but really just makes him want to crawl out of his skin even more. Static fills his ears, the edges of his vision going blurry to match it as he makes his way down the staircase, through the crowded tavern, and out the door. 

The noise of the Rexxentrum streets washes right over Fjord. He picks a direction and just starts walking, not sure who or what he’s trying to reach. Maybe he’s just going nowhere. Part of him desperately, desperately wants the comfort of the ocean breeze and the sand beneath his toes, but he’s not sure what to do with that here. Instead, he finds the next best thing: an empty, hidden away alley where he can slump against the wall and try to  _ breathe _ . 

He’s not sure how long he just sits there, knees curled to his chest, waiting for the storm beating away at his rib cage to calm. It’s long enough, at least, for the sun to set and for darkness to settle over Rexxentrum, held barely at bay with the numerous lamps lining the streets. It’s so different from Xhorhas, almost unsettling, in a way. Still, as he rests his forehead on his knees, he can’t find it within himself to move. To face the music, as it were.

(What if he fucked things up? What if Caiyra returned too early, and Jester and Caleb got caught? Reckless, selfish, only thinking about himself just like he did when he dragged them all out to sea to chase pirates—)

“Fjord? What the fuck, man?”

He startles so hard his head smacks against the wall behind him, and Beau hisses. As he rubs at it, groaning, she drops into a crouch next to him. 

“Damn, that echoed. You good?” He nods. “Great, so I don’t have to feel bad about yelling at you. Have you just been sitting here the whole fucking time?”

“No,” he says weakly. 

Beau frowns, but it’s more concerned than angry. “Seriously. We were worried. Jes thought you were—you know. Again.”

Fjord winces. He hadn’t even thought about that. “Sorry.” Then the mention of Jester clicks, and he sits up. “Did Caleb and Jester get out alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, studying him. In one smooth motion, she turns on her heel and sits down next to him, her shoulder brushing against his. “Close call, they said. Apparently the assistant came back a bit quicker than they expected. Got an explanation for that?”

He sighs, leaning back against the wall once more. When he speaks, he’s quiet, and it is not—never will be—enough. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” Her voice is low. Questioning, but not pressing. Not angry, like he expected she’d be. Like she will be, when she finds out. “Jes said you were the...distraction.”

“Yeah, well. I fucked up.”

“What, did she not fall for your endless charm?”

“Oh, she fell for it,” he says with a huff. “That wasn’t the problem.”

“What was, then? Come on, man, we don’t have all night.”

He starts, and then stops. It’s tempting, the idea of coming up with some lie. Some story about how something had gone wrong and he’d ran, or somebody’d interrupted them. It would be easy. But all of his other masks have fallen, and he’s so, so tired of wearing this one. 

“Beau,” Fjord says quietly. “Have you ever heard of someone not liking sex?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and with his eyes trained on the pattern of the brick across from them, he doesn’t know if she’s surprised or confused or...worse. He’s about to walk back on it, try to laugh it off, when she says, “I mean. Yeah?”

He turns his head, a dangerous mixture of surprise and hope battling in his chest. “What?”

One of her eyebrows is quirked, and she’s got a small but almost amused smile on her face. “Met a couple people like that, actually. One of ‘em was a monk. Took a vow of chastity.”

Fjord slumps over, hope extinguished. “Not...not like that. Not someone who just chooses not to have sex, someone who—”

“She said she took the vow because she didn’t see the point in it,” Beau interrupts, waving her hand. “Said she wasn’t attracted to anybody, so she wouldn’t bother.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s not an unheard of concept,” she says. Her shoulder bumps against his again, and this time he really feels the warmth of it. “I mean, not gonna lie, it’s not something I can personally relate to, but I don’t really get being attracted to guys either, so...y’know.” A brief pause, like she’s searching for words, and then: “Is that—is that you? Is that why you’re asking?”

He can’t bring himself to say it out loud, so he nods instead. 

Beau sucks in a breath. “But you—today. And with Avantika. You—why—”

“Did what I needed to.” He shrugs. “Well, not today, but...before.”

“Fjord. That’s fucked up. You realize that, right?”

He grimaces. Pulls his knees closer. “Yes, I know. I should’ve been able to—”

“No, fuck, I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ .” A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and when Fjord turns, Beau’s looking at him with an intensity in her eyes he hardly ever sees. The kind she gets when she is dead set on protecting one of them from themselves. “I’m talking about before, with Avantika. And today, too. You shouldn’t have been in either of those situations in the first place.”

“But—” Fjord shakes his head. “But that’s my job. That’s what I needed to do to keep them busy.”

“We could’ve found a different way to distract them,” Beau says, her grip on his shoulder tightening. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re pretty fucking creative.”

“We didn’t need to, if I could just—”

“No.” Beau gives him a little shake, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get his attention. There’s a determined set to her jaw, a flint in her eyes. “Do not finish that sentence. You don’t need to force yourself to do things like that.”

“This is what I do,” he argues. “I’m—the face, or something.”

“You can be the face and still have boundaries, Fjord. If we’d known, we wouldn’t have asked you to cross them. I mean, seriously, would you ask me to sleep with a man?”

“Back in Nicodranas, you had to flirt with—”

“I didn’t say flirt. I said sleep with.”

He sighs. “No. No, I would never.”

“Then why the hell do you think your situation is different?”

“I—” Fjord looks away, at the stone ground, the dirt encrusted in the cracks, the beginnings of a weed sprouting. “I don’t know. It just is.”

“No, it’s not. We wouldn’t force you to do something that would hurt you.” She bumps shoulders again, and he glances at her just in time to see a wicked smile curve over her lips. “And why is that, huh?”

A quiet laugh bubbles out of him. “Because we care about each other.”

“Oh, really? Isn’t that wild, how that applies to you too?”

“Alright, I get it,” he says, smiling just a bit. The itch that built itself up under his skin finally dissipates, and all that’s left is exhaustion—but a comfortable one. One that doesn’t feel heavy in a way he can’t handle. 

Beau laughs for a moment, but then gets serious again. “I won’t tell them if you don’t want me to. We can just make up something about you, I don’t know, getting arrested or whatever. They won’t know. I mean, Caduceus might, because he knows everything, but—”

“No,” he says, letting his knees drop, his legs flatten against the ground. “They should know. I- I don’t want to lie anymore.”

She nods. “Okay. Well, we could keep sitting here, if you want, but uh. I think if we wait any longer Jes is gonna start burning the city down.”

“Fair enough.” Standing is a bit of an ordeal. Apparently he’d been here a lot longer than he realized, as his legs fill with pins and needles and he has to take a second to lean against the alley wall. 

“You want your armor back on?” Beau asks, picking the chestplate and other pieces off of the ground and giving them a little shake to get the dirt off. “I can help, if you need me to.”

It would help him feel a little bit less exposed, maybe, so Fjord nods. Beau isn’t gentle in the way she touches, but she’s careful. Not just in how she ties the fastenings, but in how she holds her hands away from him, limits how often they brush against him, even with his shirt on. He’s not sure if she does it on purpose but—it’s nice. Makes him feel like he could move away and she wouldn’t care, wouldn’t judge. 

When it’s done, Beau takes a step back and nods. But before she turns, she gives him a small smile and a light fist bump on his now leather-covered shoulder. “Hey. Everything’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Fjord looks at her, and there’s nothing expectant there. No sign of something she wants, no desire behind her gaze. His next exhale is easy, unweighted. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Kudos/comments are greatly appreciated, even if I'm unfortunately not the best at responding. Constructive criticism is also welcome and appreciated, just don't be rude, please. <333  
> You can find me on Tumblr either at my main [rebelspaceace](https://rebelspaceace.tumblr.com/) or at my CR/TMA sideblog [xhorass](https://xhorass.tumblr.com/).


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